


This Debt We Pay to Human Guile

by Classics



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classics/pseuds/Classics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a thing John Watson mustn't know.</p><p>***</p><p>The pictures are grainy; they blur into dots of black and white when John rubs at his eyes and then assemble themselves together again into two smiling faces: his and Sherlock’s. </p><p>The headline is spilled across the page, yellow and bold, slinging mud at their faces; it screams <i>scoop</i> and <i>filth</i> and <i>amour</i>. John covers it and looks at the photo once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The toned paper is oily to the touch. Cheap printing ink bleeds from the warmth of his fingers, leaving a grey smudge across the margin. The pictures are grainy; they blur into dots of black and white when John rubs at his eyes and then assemble themselves together again into two smiling faces: his and Sherlock’s.

 

John looks over his shoulder instinctively, but the flat is silent and dark: he is alone.

 

He untucks a creased newspaper corner and looks at it again, his hand clasped onto his hip. They are standing together in a street, Sherlock stepping onto the roadway, John paused at the curb. Their heights match, for once, and they are turned towards one another, both grown merry on an inaudible pleasantry. Sherlock’s shoulder lightly touches John’s sleeve: a transitory point of contact, muffled by fabric.

 

John’s hand, laid onto the page, half-hides his own face in the photo, but he doesn’t notice.

 

The headline is spilled across the page, yellow and bold, slinging mud at their faces; it screams _scoop_ and _filth_ and _amour_. John covers it and looks at the photo once more.

 

He breathes steadily, in and out, and thinks that Sherlock will be home soon. He ought to discard it. It won’t do for Sherlock to see their names tied together like this, blackened. What’s more, it won’t do for Sherlock to face this talk.

 

_He’s not good with emotions, never has been. He won’t want to be thought of as a part of—this._

 

John raises his head up and crumples the tabloid, rolling it into an unsmooth ball. Out of its folds, Sherlock’s face is still looking at John in the photo, elated in their mutual merriment. He looks unreservedly happy, and John wavers, unclenching his hand. _Perhaps, there is something to talk about?_

 

He flattens it and leaves it on the coffee table, next to a Florence flask, for Sherlock to see.

 

***

His room is dim and tidy. He sits on the side of the bed which is closest to the stairway, waiting for the front door downstairs to creak open. It never does, and he doesn’t notice when he falls asleep.

 

The waking is forceful and sudden; it leaves him swallowing the staleness of the air, bewildered. The shreds of a nightmare slowly let go of his throat and lungs, but he cannot shake them off in full.

 

John lowers his feet onto the floor: the left one, first, and then other. He sits like this for some time, waiting for the tremor to pass, and then goes downwards, seeking Sherlock’s presence.

 

***

There is a puddle of blood in the sitting room on the floor, right next to the coffee table. Its edges have dried out and are brown, but a patch in the centre is yet wet and clammy. The moon shines on it with an iron gloss, and his mouth feels numb.

 

The window is wide open. The wind, gentle before, grows stronger, but it is suffocating: a hot puff of sultry air blown against his cheek, swelling out the curtains. The night has brought no cold, and yet midnight is drawing near.

 

John stands—for some time—still, watching the wetness slowly eaten out by the brown and the dry. Its progress is sure. Then he goes inside, stopping at the border cracked in flakes.

 

Sherlock is sitting in a chair further to his left. A laptop is balanced on his knees thoughtlessly, but he does not heed its balance, rustling at the keyboard keys. An open book is hung from the armrest, and half of his face is lit with a soft mechanical glow; the other, dark and sunken.

 

John passes a hand over his face and flips the light switch.

 

Sherlock blinks weak-sightedly and shades his eyes with the palm of his hand. The lamp crackles, incandescent, and darkness softly folds itself into the corners, giving room to light. Sherlock looks shed and worn; the hour is odd. Electric light splashes out into the street and dissipates into naught against the murk.

 

John takes his place in the chair to the right, smoothing his shirt and and placing both hands on his knees. They are silent for some time. The Sherlock speaks:

 

“An experiment,” stretching his hand towards the blood on the floor.

 

John nods and silence falls again, covering his mouth with its clammy fingers. Sherlock does not look at him, his eyes withdrawn and lost to the falling shadows.

 

“I’ve only just seen it, myself,” John says, turning his head to Sherlock and letting his hand grip the armrest of the chair. There is a dull ache in his shoulder, nibbling at the brim of his consciousness, but his knuckles are steady. He clenches them and looks, and then turns back to Sherlock.

 

“Seen it?”

 

Sherlock sets his laptop aside and sits up, his hands in the dressing gown pockets. He waves one and then flops it onto his lap.

 

John is quiet.

 

“Seen what?” Sherlock prompts, when no response is given.

 

John lets go off the armrest and draws himself forward, poring over his countenance. It is retreated; his gaze, stern and joyless. He doesn’t hold John’s for long.

 

*** 

John slumps back, and Sherlock puts his palms together, twisting his fingers. After a moment, he reaches down to shut the laptop lid and sits straight, as if going into a battle. There is no discomfort on his face, but it is in the tightness of his shoulders and the curve of his rigid back. Now he is looking at John. He doesn’t want to, but still, he is looking.

 

The hum of the laptop ceases, and then there’s silence.

 

John nods to himself.

 

“I take it you’ve seen it, too, then”.

 

Sherlock does not acquiesce, but pulls his knees up, clasping them with his hands. John notices just now that his feet are bare; rawboned, they dig awkwardly into the chair cushions.

His eyes steal over to the coffee table, where, crumpled, the newspaper lies, and then to John again. He looks slightly confused, as if not knowing how to answer.

 

When John speaks again, his tone is somewhat strained.

 

“Should we talk about it?”

 

Sherlock’s face is dour, dispassionate. John is not certain anymore about the artless joy he saw in the man’s face in the photo: now he seems incapable of smiling. He glances down at the front page, just to reassure himself.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sherlock asks. He readjusts the watch on his wrist and then laces his fingers together again.

 

“Not particularly, no.”

 

John draws in a breath and looks at him steadily.

 

“Well, that’s that, then,” Sherlock declares, bending down to pick up the laptop. John coughs.

 

“But I think we ought to,” he continues, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

 

“Well, I don’t see the point. You don’t want to.”

 

Sherlock sits up straight again and looks at him strangely, his eyes unreadable and dark. 

 

“Do you?” John asks, raising his head. He feels sure of the answer, and that’s why he is more and more surprised as seconds pass, and there is none.

 

John glances at Sherlock yet again. He looks tired, and the lines on both sides of his mouth seem to have grown deeper now—or it may just be the shadow.

 

The distance between the two chairs is too much now, and he cannot read Sherlock’s face in the dull yellow light. 

 

He stands up—and tastes sand in his mouth. The floor swivels, and blood drips from it upwards; it spills over Sherlock’s bare feet and charts a map of ruddy paths onto them. The sun dries them off; it is torrid, relentless.

 

“John. _John_. _”_

 

He looks up and sees he’s on the floor. Sherlock’s face has lost its rigidity, for the first time in the evening, and instead of the sun there is the moon bathing in his pupils. He is kneeling in front of him, and on John’s cheek glows a ghost of his hand.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

He blinks the sand away from his eyelashes— _it is not even there, stop it_ —and nods, but the metallic glint of blood is still there, at the edge of his vision; and then Sherlock slips the nightgown from his shoulders and spreads it over the floor, sopping it up. John’s fingers ease, and now he finds it in him to say:

 

“I am fine. Fine.”

 

Sherlock looks over him quickly and nods, too. And then, a soft smile steals over his face, raising the corners of his mouth and lighting up his eyes. It is there for a moment and then it’s gone, with both getting up, but John’s seen it—and now he thinks they may have a chance, after all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It is then that the letter comes.

 

There’s a melodic _ping_ from the laptop—reminiscent of a hospital system, a patient monitoring machine—and the half-tilted screen lights up again. Sherlock frowns and turns his head to it, and then, back to John. They are standing close—it is unsettling; Sherlock’s posture is guarded, alert.

 

John shifts from one foot to another and clenches his hand.

 

Sherlock looks at his laptop again and John nods: a barely visible reassurance, his eyes searching over Sherlock’s face. There’s a pause and then Sherlock is gone, opening the lid and skimming over the pages.

 

John is still standing halfway between their chairs, unsure. Sherlock does not seem to notice the continuance of his presence: his eyes are focused and bright; he leans towards the laptop, hunched, as if trying to hide whatever he’s reading. John nods, this time, to himself, and clears his throat once more.

 

“A case, is it?”

 

Sherlock glances at him and then looks again, sharply this time.

 

 “What did you say?”

 

John hesitates, befuddled. It is not in Sherlock’s character to miss a line, to show himself absent-minded. But then—it is only just a trifle.

 

“I said, is it a case? The—letter you’re reading?”

 

Sherlock’s face darkens. He shuts the lid with a loud thud and keeps his hand pressed over it, his posture defiant: a warning not to go further.

 

John draws himself straight and tilts his head.

 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock says intensely and very quietly. His eyes are narrow, watching John’s every movement.

 

John shakes his head and is at the point of saying something when Sherlock curbs it with a harsh:

 

“ _Nothing_.”

 

He holds John’s gaze for a second and then severs the tie, averting his own. Sherlock’s fingers on the lid are bloodless and white; it must hurt to clasp so. His left arm is stretched across his chest: a gesture of self-protection.

 

John huffs and steps back. He is disheartened—irked at this mistrust. Sherlock looks at him and tries to add something, but this time John stops him, holding his hand up.

 

“Alright, I can take hints.”

 

He is silent for a moment and then goes on:

 

“It is none of my business, anyway”.

 

Sherlock does not say anything to this. John nods again and goes to his room, his hand clutched tight and his gait hobbling. They do not see each other for the rest of the night.

 

***

When morning comes, John is lying awake on his bed, one hand thrown over his eyes and his eyes, closed. Once a square of heated sunshine crawls over from the windowsill towards the bedstand, he gets up and sets the bedcover right. It is barely ruffled: it has not been lifted.

 

He’s shut the door tight; it squeaks as he opens it and goes out onto the landing.

 

Downstairs, all is quiet.

 

He takes a look in the sitting room and in the kitchen, reluctant to meet Sherlock, but oddly lost at his absence. The flat is empty, and Sherlock’s room is shut. John doesn’t knock.

 

He goes to the kitchen, out of the corner of his eye noticing a pile-up of chemistry equipment which wasn’t there the night before: a watch glass and a cropper at the table edge, a rack full of test tubes and a beaker discarded on the counter.

 

In it, there’s sand.

 

He sets it aside, pours yesterday’s stewed tea into his teacup and thinks.

 

***

He is wrenched out of his thoughts when the door downstairs opens, and there comes a flutter of footsteps on the stairs. He goes into the sitting room to meet Sherlock half-way.

 

“There’s been a murder.”

 

“A murder?” John asks, setting his teacup onto the table. He is yet wary, but his eyes are shining, set on Sherlock.

 

“A murder, yes. A case.”

 

Sherlock looks at him with a sidelong glance. His countenance is cheerless, still; but there’s a

firmness to it, as if a decision has been made. He brushes past John, goes into the kitchen and pours the beaker out into the sink. Once he has done that, his shoulders relax.

 

“Where?”

 

“North Gower Street. Lestrade just called.”

 

There’s a pause and then Sherlock continues,

 

“There’s a cab downstairs. I just stopped—”

 

John raises his eyebrows, inquiring. Sherlock sighs.

 

“Well, I—I thought you might want to come along.”

 

John considers asking him where he’d been before that. He decides against it.

 

***

The ride is short and its speed blurs the streets they’re passing, blending them into long uniform strokes on the city’s canvas. North Gower Street is kin to Baker Street, scarily so: a set of matching houses and a canopied cafe; even the door-knocker on the flat is straightened to the left, the way he sets it. The difference that strikes the eye first is the barricade tape, zigzagged between the poles. Its yellow and its black strike through the street, cutting it in halves: a chequer of danger.

 

John gets out of the cab and turns to Sherlock to comment on the similarity, but Sherlock is looking something up on his phone and doesn’t return his gaze; and so he leaves it be.

 

***

Lestrade hails them from the other side of the street and they wait as he cuts across it: standing alongside, their shoulders touching. He acknowledges them with a nod and leads them over to the entrance door. It is black, mournful; there are deep scratches in the paint—some fresh, some old, crossed out by the new ones.

 

The scratches are on the inner side of the door.

 

Sally is standing by the stairwell, watching the forensics go up and down, everyone unusually quiet. She looks at them askance when they come in and opens her mouth as if to say something, but then presses her lips together tightly. 

 

They go up to the first floor. It’s desolate: a soft cushion of dust lies everywhere and strips of wallpaper have come unstuck from the walls, the pattern long lost to discolourment: a tribute to the sun and the years. The windows are pasted over with newspapers and the room is hidden in layers of grey. John blinks, and vague silhouettes form in the dark: a coffee table, two chairs, a sofa.

 

Then the narrow beam of a hand torch rips the dark open and he sees a body on the floor.

 

It is a man lying prostrate, right at John’s feet, like his shadow.

 

He has no time examine it: the next moment Sherlock is shoving him aside and kneeling on the floor. He passes his hands over the man´s shoulders and back, and the touch is careful, almost — almost gentle. Then he turns him over and looks at his face.

 

John steps closer but Sherlock´s already let the man’s head back down on the floor. He is still kneeling and his lips are moving silently, soundlessly.

 

On them, John reads a string of “ _no—no—no.”_

 

The hand torch is switched off and the room darkles. Sherlock gets up, comes closer and sweeps his hand over John’s sleeve, motioning him outside. They go downstairs: Sherlock with his lips set in a white firm line, John, uncomprehending.

 

Lestrade is waiting for them; and Sally is gone. Sherlock accosts him, insistent, and asks:

 

“Have you seen it?”

 

“What, the scene? Yes.”

 

Sherlock grimaces and specifies:

 

“ _Him._ The body.”

 

“Well, no _—_ no-one's touched it. I thought you might want have a look first.”

 

Sherlock turns back to look at John and then lowers his voice and says something. Lestrade breathes out a soft “ _oh_ ” and his face goes blank.

 

“What is it?” John demands.

 

The two share a look and Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“It’s best if _—_ well, I should leave it to Sherlock,” Lestrade says, his air apologetic. They look at each other again and Sherlock gives a small nod _—_ as if to say “thank you.”

 

After that, Sherlock goes out into the street and John follows. There are a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue, and yet he asks none.

 

***

Sherlock doesn’t speak to him and they walk in mutual silence for several minutes. Then there’s a cab in the traffic flow, and Sherlock hails it. They’re about to get in when John sees Sally standing at the corner, a paper cup in her hand. She’s just a couple of yards away, and her voice is clear and ringing when she says:

 

“The forensics _did_ see him, you know.”

 

Sherlock pauses, the cab door half-opened.

 

“We all saw him. We didn’t tell you. Do you know why?”

 

Sherlock turns away and says, strangled,

 

“Let’s go.”

 

“Because John needs to know,” she continues weightily. “ _He has a right to know_ ”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you_ for taking the time to read this. Posting schedule can be found via [fromvictorianera.tumblr.com](http://www.fromvictorianera.tumblr.com). 
> 
> A bow to [Tokyo_the_Glaive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive)!


	3. Chapter 3

The ride home is silent. Sherlock’s hands are restless: they tap at the upholstery, worry at his buttons, swipe over his lapels. There is a tremor to his fingers once he forces them together. John looks at Sherlock’s reflection in the side window: a pallid face enframed with black, gone blank. Sherlock is distant, frozen up in his quietude. He doesn’t see John looking.

 

John looks back from Sherlock in the glass to Sherlock beside him. He’s at his arm’s end, within reach, but John knows he can’t close the distance.

 

Sherlock is unquiet, uneasy. Under his eyes there are sorrowful, grievous ashen shadows. John wants to take his face in his hands and wipe them away; but he’s afraid he’d only make them darker.

 

He places a hand on the seat between them instead: a tentative offering for the beast. Sherlock looks at it once and then right at him. John keeps his countenance straight and his fingers, uncurled.

 

Sherlock untwines his fingers slowly and puts his right hand beside, not touching, an inch away. And then—they are at the corner of Baker Street.

 

***

Outside, it is hot: unusually so for London. The empty ground of the border bed is cloven and the wind is blowing the dry earthen dust off onto the pavement. A newspaper fragment flutters, caught on a pike of the fence. John thinks he can just make out their faces—and then it tears and is carried away, up into the jaundiced sky.

 

Sherlock has already opened the door and gone in, so John follows him, catching up on the stairs. Sherlock is walking up slowly, with his hand on the banister—something he never does. John doesn’t get ahead of him: he stays on behind. Sherlock’s shoulders are squared, defensive, and his sleeves cannot hide his shivering fingers.

 

John enters the flat after him and waits—sure that Sherlock won’t turn to him, sure that he’ll want to remain untouchable, beyond reach behind the closed door of his room, behind his aloofness.

 

He is mistaken. Sherlock stays.

 

***

Sherlock comes through and sits down on the sofa. He hasn’t taken of his coat and his posture is constrained. He looks as if he were about to face an unpleasant and forced necessity.

 

Then he turns to John.

 

John steps in and shrugs his jacket off. He takes it by the collar and neatly folds in half, smoothing the sleeves together, places it on the chair and then goes closer to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock is tensed, following his movements with worried, bloodshot eyes. John thinks he has got to give him time, but going upstairs doesn’t seem right—not with Sherlock so uneasy and yet not gone. So he tugs at the hemline of his jumper, and smoothes it out, and passes his hand through his hair.

 

Sherlock is obstinately, peculiarly quiet.

 

John sits down on the further end of the sofa. He doesn’t know how to start a conversation—or if he even should start one—so for a while he just watches Sherlock watch him.

 

Then Sherlock looks away and unbuttons his coat.

 

“I suppose,” he says, taking off his gloves and placing them on the coffee table, “you'll now want to make some—enquiries.”

 

His gloves are now covering the newspaper that has been lying here from the night before.

 

His voice is tired. He looks prim, formal even—addressing a duty. John rubs at his own knee and sighs.

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Sherlock asks quickly, turning to him. John can see the incredulity on his face—that of a condemned man who was just granted pardon. He leans forward and nods.

 

“I don’t want to pry,” he adds, looking at his hands. “And it’s none of my business, anyway.”

 

Sherlock freezes and John bites on his lip, realising just now that he said these exact words just the night before—and then walked away and left him alone.

 

John always thought Sherlock relished being left alone—but now his hands are trembling, pleading.

 

He wants to say he won’t leave, regardless of what it is that he doesn’t know, of what that man meant to Sherlock. He doesn’t tell him any of that: reticence, that’s how it always is between them.

 

“You must have some conjectures,” Sherlock states, looking straight ahead. It is not a question, so John says nothing to it.

 

He does have some—of course he has. It was the matter of seeing the gentleness in his hands when they hovered over the man’s body, the whiteness of his face. Of course he has—conjectures, and yet he feels he is in no right to voice them.

 

Still, despite the wrongness of envying the dead, despite his compassion, there’s bitterness in his throat. He tries to swallow it away, but to no avail.

 

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock says, firm and sure.

 

***

John frowns. He didn’t think Sherlock would choose denying it.

 

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock repeats, more insistent this time. He looks John straight in the eyes, not blinking, as if trying to force a conviction.

 

John doesn’t believe him, at that time.

 

***

They drop the matter after that—for now, John unconvinced, Sherlock unsatisfied. Sherlock goes on to sit over the chemistry equipment on the kitchen table for hours, his face growing darker with each. John reads a study on bullet wounds, the pages smelling indistinctly of antiseptics and hospital sheets. Both stay quiet.

 

Every once in a while there’s a soft clink of glass or a whisper of sand being poured and John looks up, but Sherlock’s back and elbows hide his occupation. Again, John doesn’t ask.

 

Once the sun is falling down to the horizon and the shadows are getting longer, Sherlock stands up and motions him to follow.

 

John puts his jacket back on and Sherlock picks up his gloves from the coffee table, his eyes stopping for a moment over the newspaper. He pauses and John tries to read his face—in vain.

 

Sherlock turns abruptly and heads towards the stairs. He’s already halfway down when John calls him,

 

“Where are we going, exactly?”

 

Sherlock tarries with the answer. Then, with his back to John, he explains:

 

“The case, John. Do keep up.”

 

There’s no acidity in his voice: it is flat and tired. In it, there’s a distinct undertone of _not—okay._ He has turned up his collar, and the cuffs of his shirt are rumpled, as if he has been clutching at them.

 

“The case?”

 

John goes several stair steps down, closer to Sherlock. Sherlock turns and leans his back on the wall, his arms crossed in front. He reclines his head and looks at John through slitted eyes, tensed. There’s no light on the stairs, and the semi-darkness wraps them together, only watered down by the electric light down in the hallway.

 

The proximity and the dark blend together into something almost akin to—intimacy; and this is why John dares to go on.

 

“You can’t be talking about—this case? The one from this morning?”

 

He ceases speaking and swallows, unsure whether it is his right to mention it, but Sherlock doesn’t recoil and so he continues:

 

“You know you don’t have to take it, right?” He rubs at his forehead. “I mean, I’m sure you’d solve it, but—”

 

Sherlock is not helping him, not finishing the phrase, just standing still and watching.

 

“Sherlock, come on. You must know what I’m getting at.”

 

John sighs and grimaces.

 

“Look, you don’t want to acknowledge it—fine. But there’s no need to push yourself into looking into it. If you’d like, I’ll never mention it again.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head tiredly.

 

“You’re wrong, I already told you. It’s not what you think.”

 

He is quiet for a moment, looking up and down John’s face.

 

“And I _must_ look into it. That’s the way it works.”

 

“That’s the way—what works?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

 

***

They’re almost out of the door when there’s mrs Hudson’s voice, calling for Sherlock. In a moment she appears herself, flustered in some unspoken worry. She smiles to John, absent-minded, and says sternly,

 

“Sherlock, dear. Must it go on any longer?”

 

Sherlock presses his lips together and casts a glance at her, half angry, half pleading. In his look, there’s guilt. 

 

“You know it’ll only be worse once he finds out,” she tuts. “You’ve got to tell him _sometime._ ”

 

“He´s right here,” Sherlock hisses. “Must we be having this conversation _now_?”

 

He wrinkles his nose and adds below his breath, quietly:

 

“I need some more time. Just a bit more time.”

 

John folds his arms and shifts from one foot to another. There is a palatable feeling of uneasiness in his stomach; it curves upon itself and tastes of lead.

 

Mrs Hudson surveys Sherlock for a moment and then nods.

 

“Well, alright, then. But do tell him soon, will you?”

 

She looks at John once more, her lips pursued, and smiles: a small rueful smile. Then she goes back inside and clicks the door shut.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock steps back from him, his hands in his pockets, and looks defiant—almost defeated.

 

“Sherlock,” John repeats, more insistent this time. “What is it? Why can’t you—?”

 

Sherlock shakes his head violently and snarls,

 

“No.”

 

“You’ll know. You’ll know in due time,” he adds, his shoulders sagging, bitter. “But when you do, the wind cannot return anymore on its circuits.”

 

“The wind—it’s from the Bible, isn’t it?” John pinches the bridge of his nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“It means that you can’t un-know it, John,” Sherlock says quietly. “And then—everything goes to ashes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta [Tokyo_the_Glaive](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive), who was both kind and helpful! Any errors are completely and undividedly my fault. 
> 
> The title is a line taken from Paul Laurence Dunbar’s [We Wear the Mask](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173467). Also, you’re very welcome at my tumblr page ([fromvictorianera.tumblr.com](http://www.fromvictorianera.tumblr.com)).
> 
> Please do tell me what you liked and (didn't like) so far, I'd be delighted!


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